


The Ritual

by ColonelPurplePotatoes



Series: Shards of Ice and Broken Dreams [3]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Anxiety, Bisexual Steve Rogers, Bisexual Tony Stark, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Good coping mechanisms, Homophobic Language, Hurt/Comfort, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Mentions of alcoholism, Not Canon Compliant, Past Peggy Carter/Steve Rogers, Period-Typical Homophobia, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Harm, Slow Burn, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, Tony Stark Is a Good Bro, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unrequited Love, mentions of drug use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-21
Updated: 2019-06-02
Packaged: 2020-03-09 02:43:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 8,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18907906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ColonelPurplePotatoes/pseuds/ColonelPurplePotatoes
Summary: Steve hasn't been coping since he came out of the ice, but a shaving nick gives him an idea. Please read the tags and notes carefully before deciding to read. Tags updated with each chapter as needed.





	1. Steve

**Author's Note:**

> Make sure you've read the tags before deciding on whether or not to read. This story arc deals with using self-harm as a coping mechanism for anxiety. There will be no gratuitious depictions of the act, but plenty of talk about it. There will be no links to suicidal ideation/actions, as these two things are often not connected.
> 
> This is based on personal experience so if you're wondering whether people actually do stuff like this, the answer is yes.
> 
> If you are struggling with similar issues, please remember that things can and do get better. Don't let things build - take control in a good way and reach out for help.

He was right in the middle of the ritual when the call came. Avengers Assemble et cetera, et cetera. Steve's whole body stilled. Panic seeped in like CO2, pushing the oxygen from his lungs, his blood.  
  
It wasn't the call that made Steve panic. It was the timing. Regardless, he sucked it up and stood. There was nothing to be done but force his chest to rise and fall, and go and be the leader they needed him to be.  
  
The ritual would have to wait.  
  
It had evolved by accident, as most things do. A strange happenstance struck feeling into Steve's half-frozen bones, and so it went on. After being encased in ice and half-dead for seventy years, sometimes it was hard to feel anything but numb. As soon as something forced him to life, Steve clung to it, and the ritual began.  
  
It started with a shaving accident. In theory these so-called safety razors should have been safer than the cut-throat he'd used in the past. The word safety was in the name, for goodness sake, though how five blades could be safer than one, Steve didn't know. The shave had been going well until it wasn't, and then there was a trail of bright blood running down Steve's face. His first reaction was the usual mild consternation, the abandoning of the little plastic handled thing, grabbing a towel, pressing it to his cheek. Then Steve looked, _really looked_ , at the welling red.  
  
It was obscene against the blue paleness of the artificial light in his apartment bathroom. The blood swelled into a bud, then bloomed and slipped down the concave under his cheekbone, languidly trailed down his half-shaved chin, then dropped soundlessly into the cloudy water. The bright red turned into a murky swirl, before it twisted and dissipated into oblivion.  
  
What remained was the pain.  
  
Steve turned his eyes back to the hardlight reflection of his own face. The cut was healing already but the translucent trail of blood was still there. He kept his gaze on the cut as the serum worked to knit the tissue, and as it did, the pain vanished. As the pain vanished, Steve's anxiety rose.  
  
That gave him pause. Where had it gone? For that brief moment as he watched the blood track the curve of his face, then drop into the water, Steve hadn't felt anything but curiosity and pain. He'd been freed of the fear gnawing at his stomach lining. He hadn't worried about how much Tony hated him, or how Steve felt about the other man, and the guilt he could never shake at being sweet on another fella. For a moment, Steve had disappeared into a microcosm, and for a few seconds he hadn't been afraid.  
  
_He hadn't been afraid_.  
  
That started it. 'It' evolved until Steve had everything he needed, not just the blade but the antiseptic wipes and the wool pads and the towel. He knew his body could fight off any infection, but it made him feel better to feel prepared. The more prepared he felt, the longer the relief lasted.  
  
He kept it to his inner thighs, because no one would see them there. Why would anyone be near his naked, inner thighs? He kept the cuts shallow, straight and long, until his leg looked like it was marked with one of those barcode things folk put on products now. Steve could look at it like that after the fact, because after the fact, he could think. He could see. He could even smile.  
  
The lines never lasted long, but that wasn't the point. He didnt want to look at them. They weren't marks of shame or punishment. What he wanted was the pain. The physical sensation gave him something to focus on, away from the roiling in his head.  
  
The ritual worked most of the time. Except the fateful time when the team needed Steve while he was right in the middle of it. Anxiety shuddered through him as he laid down his tools, hastily shoving the towel over the top of them even though he knew no one would ever see them. As he answered the call, Steve sucked in a breath, trying to quell the panic rising inside. If he'd been able to finish, he would have been fine.  
  
But it didnt matter. He had to be fine anyway.  
  
Unfortunately he wasn't, and the last thing he remembered wasn't the building coming down on his head, but the sight of Tony, riding high as Iron Man, silhouetted against the blue sky.  
  
At least Tony was safe. That was all that mattered.


	2. Tony

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony gets called in to S.H.I.E.L.D medical to talk, not about Steve's injuries caused by the building collapse, but something much less serious, and yet much, much worse.

When S.H.I.E.L.D medical called Tony into the clinic to speak to him in private, Tony couldn't understand why. Cap was going to be fine, they all knew that. Maybe not any more intelligent, considering he couldn't even get out of the way of an entire building coming down, but fine. The serum, blah blah, healing factor, blah. Fine, right?  
  
"So what's the story?" Tony asked lightly as Dr Archbold ushered him into her office.  
  
After Tony dropped into one of the seats across from her desk, there was a long moment. A _long_ moment. Dr Archbold made no sound as she sat down. Tony watched her fold her fingers together, then shifted his gaze to the tight lines between her shaped eyebrows.  
  
"What's the story?" Tony asked again, all levity gone this time.  
  
"I've asked you here because Mr Rogers has you listed as his next of kin."  
  
Tony could _literally_ feel his eyes pop from their sockets. " _Excuse me_?"  
  
Dr Archbold pursed her lips and nodded. "It's true. I wasn't sure if you were aware or not."  
  
"I was absolutely _not_ aware."  
  
Tony's brain cells were still processing the information, his mind whirling like a digital hamster stuck inside a software loading wheel. Steve Rogers, the man who barely spoke to him and seemed to view him as an irresponsible asshole, had him listed as his _next of kin_? Why?  
  
Tony nearly blurted the question out loud, but there was no point. How could the good doctor know, considering before this incident she'd never even met Steve?  
  
"Well, whether you were aware or not, I'm duty-bound to pass this information on to you."  
  
The hamster in Tony's brain went into hyperdrive at that. There was no possible outcome where this conversation would be a good thing. Doctors didn't feel duty-bound to pass on information such as, 'Your next of kin has a beautiful face,' or, 'Your next of kin has an amazing, peachy ass.' Both of these statements were entirely true of Steve, and both were a million miles away from the actual words that came out of Dr Archbold's mouth.  
  
"We've found injuries on Mr Rogers' body that we believe are self-inflicted."  
  
Tony's brain hamster died right then. Or if not died, phased into a new level of reality, passed through a subspace barrier and _hi-ho_   _silvered_ off into a new dimension.  
  
"Excuse me, what?"  
  
Dr Archbold nodded. "That's what we believe."  
  
"C'mon, doc," Tony said, spreading his hands wide, because she couldn't possibly be serious, "a whole Midtown building came down on Rogers' head. Surely that's the reason for any of his injuries?"  
  
There was, Tony knew, no possible, rational explanation for why national icon, national _treasure_ Captain America would ever harm himself. Did not compute. Nope. Couldn't be true.  
  
"Mr Stark," Dr Archbold continued, her tone that soft-yet-firm medical expert one Tony hated when it was directed at himself. "There are a number of perfectly straight, perfectly spaced incisions to the inside of Mr Rogers' thigh, in various states of healing. One of them was so fresh earlier today that his uniform pantleg was stuck to it, indicating--we believe--that the most recent injury was done only a handful of hours before, as you say, an entire Midtown building came down on Mr Rogers' head." The doctor sighed, shaking her head. "If I had any doubt, I wouldn't be speaking to you right now. But we have a duty of care to Mr Rogers. We can't let this go. As his next of kin, its important that you know."  
  
Tony ground his teeth, then let a controlled breath ghost between his lips. What. The _actual_.  
  
"Thank you for telling me."  
  
Though those were his words, they weren't what he meant. What Tony really meant was, 'I don't want this information. I don't know what to do with it. I also don't want to think about the fact that Steve, who is _such_ an asshole, might actually _not_ be an asshole, and maybe he's accidently pulling a Tony and shoving people away to protect himself.'  
  
Tony didn't want the information. The hamster didn't want the information. Yet there it was, and that asshole Steve had made him his next of kin, meaning this was now, in part, Tony's problem.  
  
"Asshole," he whispered.  
  
"Excuse me?" Dr Archbold asked, one sculpted brow lifting.  
  
"Nothing, nothing," Tony said, waving her off. "Just. Hamsters. Or something." Tony wrenched his thoughts back in order, clapping his hands on his knees as if to indicate he was in control, though he felt far from it. "What do we do from here?"  
  
"We'll be following this up as a matter of patient safety," Dr Archbold said, "but it's not our area or speciality. It'll have to go to psych--"  
  
"Let me handle it." The words were out of Tony's mouth before he knew what he was saying. As Dr Archbold's perfect eyebrow neared her hairline, he held up his hands. "Not _me_ me, but let me handle it. I know some excellent therapists. And psychiatrists. They can liaise with S.H.I.E.L.D, keep you in the loop. But let me organise his care." A smile tugged one side of his lips. "I am his next of kin, after all."  
  
To her credit, Dr Archbold didn't immediately dismiss the idea out of hand, which she probably should have after that ridiculous line.  
  
Instead, the good doctor gave a slow nod. "Alright. As long as Mr Rogers agrees."  
  
"Absolutely."  
  
The meeting ended and Tony went on his way. Or at least, he went to go on his way. Instead he ended up walking deeper into the medical facility, opening the door marked 'ROGERS,' and standing at the foot of Steve's bed.  
  
He looked...well, like someone who'd had a building fall on his head. But someone who'd had a building fall on his head a week ago, not just a handful of hours before. Steve's face, that beautiful face, was marred and marked and purpling, and the deep gashes, which had bled so profusely when Tony had pulled Captain Stupid from the rubble, looked half-healed. But unlike a mere mortal after a catastrophic event, Steve wasn't covered in bandages and stitched together like a well-loved rag doll. The most mortal thing about the whole scene was the IV running into Steve's arm, and the fact he was wearing a hospital gown, not his uniform.  
  
Tony's mind hamster jerked back to this reality. Of course. That was how the doctors had found the injuries on Steve's leg. They'd had to peel off his ruined uniform, and there they were for all to see, injuries no doubt placed just where Steve had placed them for the very reason that no one would see them.  
  
Never before had Tony wanted so hard to smack and hug someone at the same time.  
  
"Steve, Steve, Steve," he whispered, shoving his hands into the pockets of his slacks. "Why in the name of all that's holy didn't you tell me about this?"  
  
Tony's first answer was, _why would he_? They barely even spoke civil words outside of Avengering. Yet, why _wouldn't_ he? If Steve was willing to put him down as next of kin, why wasn't he willing to let Tony _be_  his next of kin?  
  
Probably because that was an insane leap to make. Putting someone's name on a form was hugely different from actually putting your problems in their hands. Tony sighed and kicked the scuffed wheels of the hospital bed.  
  
"Asshole," he said again.  
  
Steve, unlike Dr Archbold, didn't raise an eyebrow in reply. He didn't do anything other than stay silent in the bed, looking hurt in ways beyond his physical injuries. Tony flopped into the chair beside him and shadowed his face with his hands.


	3. Steve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve hears Tony's voice while he's still unconscious. Tags updated for this chapter so please check to make sure you want to continue reading.

"Steve, Steve, Steve. Why in the name of all that's holy didn't you tell me about this?"  
  
There was a possibility that was Tony's actual voice. There was also a possibility it was a manifestation in Steve's brain. That was, of course, if he had any brain left. There was also a possibility that he didn't, and he'd been pummeled to death by a falling building.  
  
When Steve tried to move in response to the voice that might have been Tony's, nothing happened. With no empirical evidence to suggest whether he was alive or dead or not, Steve did nothing. Maybe he's alive and dead at the same time. Schrödinger's Cap. Ha. Tony would probably laugh at that. Or at least laugh at him for making the comparison. Tony had more knowledge about quantum physics in his pinky finger than Steve had knowledge about...anything.  
  
It was an apt description, regardless. Alive and dead at the same time was exactly how he'd been between 1945 and the moment S.H.I.E.L.D thawed him out. Alive and dead at the same time was pretty much how he'd felt in this world where nothing made sense, where he'd lost everyone he knew, and where the one person he wanted to be closest to the most kept him at arm's length at all times.  
  
Maybe it __was because Tony could sense he was a Nancy-boy. _Not a Nancy-boy_ , Steve corrected himself. That wasn't how fellas who liked fellas were referred to in this day and age. A sliver of anxiety slipped through his mind like smoke. Steve knew so little about this new world, he didn't even know how to refer to himself.  
  
He tried to quell the smoulder of panic in his stomach. Tony wouldn't judge him even if he did know. Tony might have been a heel, but he wasn't--what was it they called it now? Homophobic? He didn't keep away from Steve because of something he couldn't know. He kept away because... In truth, Steve didn't understand why.  
  
"Asshole."  
  
That was possibly Tony's voice again. Steve tried to shift, but his limbs were lead. The smoulder caught light, a white-hot flame twisting upward. Tony wasn't even there and he still didn't like him. Steve tried to swallow against the panic licking up his oesophagus. If only he could do the ritual. That would quench the fire right away.  
  
The heat chased away his unconsciousness and Steve's eyes fluttered open, stinging with smoky fear. The first thing he saw through his streaming eyes was Tony, his face winged by his hands. Both here and not here.  
  
"Schrödinger's Stark," Steve breathed.  
  
Tony's head snapped up and his hands leapt from his face.  
  
"What?" he asked.  
  
But Steve had no idea what he meant because he forgot what he'd said as reality rushed in--the whiteness of a hospital room, the cannula in his arm, the thin tubing trailing from a half-empty IV bag, the shuttered windows, the strange soft-scratch of a hospital gown--his panic erupted into an inferno.  
  
" _No_!"  
  
Everything became feral. Steve grasped for the tubing but missed, half-leaping from the bed under his own clumsy momentum. His arms. There was something wrong. They were twisted and gnarled and wrong--they were on _backwards_. What had they done to him? _What had they done_? He needed the ritual. He needed the pain to give him space to think.  
  
"Whoa, whoa, easy there partner."  
  
Tony's voice sliced through Steve's panic. The sensation of Tony's hands on his arms, so strong and firm and grounding, brought Steve back to himself. That firm grip and the strength in Tony's eyes anchored him better than any pain.  
  
"Hey, it's okay. Can you hear me, buddy?"  
  
Even with his chest heaving, Steve's anxious terror began to abate.  
  
"Gonna need an answer here, sport."  
  
Steve managed a jerky nod. "I can hear you."  
  
Partner. Buddy. Sport. Any and all of those was better than _asshole_.  
  
"You're okay, Steve," Tony went on. "You're in S.H.I.E.L.D medical. In the battle of Midtown Building Versus Captain America, you won."  
  
Steve. Tony called him Steve. Not Rogers, but Steve. New pain welled, tightening around Steve's throat like a noose. It didn't mean anything and yet it meant everything. He was a fairy for grappling onto something so small and making it mean more than it did, but he also _wasn't_ because that wasn't how things were any longer.  
  
He couldn't go forward. He couldn't go back. Safe in Tony's grip, Steve cracked.  
  
If the Howling Commandos had seen him then, a sobbing wreck in the arms of another man, they would have spat on him. If the rest of the Avengers saw him, they'd never trust him to lead them again.  
  
But Tony didn't deride him. Tony slid his hands from Steve's arms and up to his shoulders, pulling him into an embrace. Yeah, Tony definitely wouldn't judge him for being a Nancy-boy. Tony was a good guy  
  
"We've got a lot to talk about, Mr Rogers."  
  
Though he used Steve's surname this time, there was no edge to it. And whatever he meant by that comment, Steve had no idea. In that moment, it didn't matter. Tony was his touchstone, keeping him in the here and now, warm and far from alone, not alive and dead at the same time but just alive.  
  
It wouldn't last, Steve knew, but for now, it was more than enough.


	4. Tony

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony brings Steve home from S.H.I.E.L.D medical. Usually he's one to run from responsibility, but something feels different this time. And anyway, it's clear that Steve needs someone--and it's got to be Tony.

Well, _that_ was a thing. Tony stayed with Steve for a little while until he went slack with sleep. After laying him back on the bed, Tony slipped away and went home, but he couldn't stop thinking about Steve.  
  
As he entered the penthouse of Stark Tower, Tony muttered, " _Asshole_ ," even though he didn't mean it anymore. Steve wasn't as asshole. He was hurting.  
  
As he pulled off his clothes and hung his still-crisp jacket in the closet, Tony shook his head. When Steve had woken, the feral terror in his eyes had unlocked some deep-seated protective instinct. As soon as Tony had clamped his hands on those glorious, trembling biceps, he'd wanted to take all Steve's pain away.  
  
As he ordered dinner and then picked through the containers, barely eating anything, Tony's chest was empty without the press of the big guy against it. He discarded his fork with a clang and planted his elbows on the table, propping his head up with his hands.  
  
_Tony ol' buddy_ , he thought, _you've got it bad_. Now wasn't the time though. There never would be a time, of course, but now was the worst of all the times Tony couldn't act on his feelings. Steve was hurting, deep underneath that perfect exterior, and the last thing he needed was Tony's bisexual dick poking into his problems. Steve was already a man out of time. He didn't need the open complication of 21st Century sexuality dumped in his lap too.  
  
Groaning as he tried not to think about dick poking and sexuality and Steve's lap, Tony slid his hands over his eyes. This wasn't what he needed to think about. What he needed to think about was a plan on how to Fix Things. Tony was an engineer. Fixing things was his speciality. Surely it wouldn't take much to fix this particular problem?  
  
Maybe if Steve had been mechanical or robotic, but he wasn't. While sometimes Tony wanted to check his back for the wind-up key that operated the perfect tin soldier, there wasn't one. If this incident with the building and the revelation of Steve's apparent issue had proved one thing, it was that Captain Perfect wasn't so perfect.  
  
He was soft and squishy and vulnerable the way all humans were, and in a way not dissimilar to Tony. There was a reason he had some of the best therapists in Manhattan on speed dial. While Tony had never taken a blade to his own skin, he'd done plenty of binging on booze and other dubious substances to cause himself harm. He never exactly wanted to hurt, and he especially didn't want the accompanying hangovers, but drugs and alcohol had been dual friends and foes to him for so long, he sometimes forgot how to cope without them. Or at least he did during the dark times when all he could see was tunnel vision through the neck of a bottle. Right now wasn't one of those times. He was sober, with no appointments scheduled for a few months, though the therapists' numbers always stayed in his cell.  
  
As the memory of Steve's harried " _No_!" crashed through Tony's memory, he was doubly glad for his current sobriety. Maybe it was fate that he was clear-headed enough to help when Steve needed it. Or maybe it was just fate. Whatever the reason, it was serendipity.  
  
Now he just had to figure out what the hell to do.  
  
*  
  
Within 48 hours, S.H.I.E.L.D medical was happy to release Steve into the care of his next of kin. _Man_ , that was a weird thing to think of himself as. Dr Archbold's caveat was that Tony was true to his word and would organise the necessary aftercare, and gave a stern warning that if they didn't hear from Tony or at least his people within three days, Steve would be called in to psych.

  
Being released into the care of his next of kin didn't mean Tony had to come and collect him, but the sight of Steve waiting in the chair beside the hospital bed made Tony's stomach clench, and he was glad he had come down himself and not sent a town car.  
  
Steve looked impossibly small. His shoulders were hunched and rolled in so far, it took six inches from their impressive width. His head was bowed, a few locks of soft blond hair falling across his eyes, and he was staring at his hands. They were clenched so hard, the skin was translucent over his sharp bones.  
  
The scene was so heartbreaking all Tony could do was blurt out, "Your carriage awaits."  
  
His voice was obnoxiously loud even to his own ears. When Steve jumped right to his feet, eyes saucer-round with fright, Tony's stomach clenched more. Idiot. Some _taking care of_ by the next of kin.  
  
He lifted his hands in apology. "Sorry, sorry."  
  
He received a tight nod in response. Tony stepped away from the door, gesturing for Steve to go through with a silent "after-you" motion. After a moment, Steve complied.  
  
Something strange happened the moment he crossed the threshold. Vulnerable Steve stayed behind and Captain America walked through the door. He thanked the medical staff and shared his easy smile. His chin stayed high, his back remained straight, and it was as if nothing had happened and there were no perfectly straight lines cut into the inside of his thigh.  
  
By the time they entered the elevator to take them to ground level, Tony could see the cracks forming. By the time they slipped inside Tony's unreasonably expensive Lotus, Steve's whole body was trembling.  
  
The drive didn't take long, but the silence stretched it into an eternity. When Tony parked up in his private underground garage, he finally turned to face his passenger. Steve stared right ahead.  
  
"I'm going to make some calls this afternoon about the next stage of your care," he said. "You know the score. If I don't, S.H.I.E.L.D will wade in, and I don't think they're the best guys to be dealing with..." He made a vague twirling gesture with one hand. Why was this so awkward? "This situation."  
  
Steve's monosyllabic reply was a simple, "Sure," and that was it.  
  
Tony twisted a little in the driver's seat, releasing himself from the safety belt. Steve's eyes remained locked forward.  
  
"I'm not going to bullshit you here, Rogers. I know this is awkward as all hell and I know you'd rather I wasn't involved, but I am and that's something we have to deal with." This inside of the car's windshield must have been riveting because not once did Steve look away from it. "I know you don't like me, but I'm here to help. And anyway, I said I would and I get the feeling Dr Archbold will hunt me down and kill me if I don't, Hippocratic Oath be damned."  
  
Steve's reply made his babbling stop right away. "I do like you, Tony."

Say what?

  
"Oh. Well, that's good then."  
  
Now it was Tony who turned to examine the windshield. There were a few light convex lines left from the wiper blades wearing out. He'd need to get those changed.  
  
"What can I do to help you, Steve? Apart from organising all the stuff S.H.I.E.L.D want me to. What practical thing can I do?"  
  
A series of little puffs of breath drew Tony's attention away from the window. Steve's head was heavy against the headrest and his chest rose and fell a little too quickly. Not enough to be noticable unless you knew a lot about the way Steve breathed, but enough for Tony to know something wasn't quite right.  
  
"I don't know."  
  
Steve's reply was soft and aching and made him look so young. And it occured to Tony then that Steve _was_ young. He might have been born in 1918, but the ice had hit the pause button on his life and Tony suddenly felt very old and very responsible.  
  
His knee-jerk reaction was to make a joke and run away, because that's what Tony Stark did, right? Wrong. The weight if responsibility that had settled on Tony's shoulders since hearing that phrase, "next of kin," didn't allow him to do that. Instead he popped open the car door and stepped out.  
  
"C'mon. You're moving in with me for a while."  
  
That wrenched Steve's attention from the windshield. His expression cycled between horror and something softer that Tony couldn't place.  
  
"What? It's only a difference of a few floors. And it's not like I don't have space." The way Steve worried his lower lip was so endearing, it made Tony bolder. "You need someone right now, Steve, and something tells me you don't want to involve anyone else. So get out of the car and come with me."  
  
The words could have been harsh, but Tony kept his tone deliberately gentle. When Steve made no move to get out of the car, Tony circled around to open the door for him. When Steve accepted the hand he offered, Tony noted it was trembling.  
  
"Come on. Trust me."  
  
Steve looked up with those liquid ocean eyes and damn but they were amazing. What was more beautiful was the fact the tsunami edge of Steve's disdain was absent from his gaze. Instead there was pliant gentleness.  
  
"Okay."  
  
Steve didn't need Tony to help him up, but he allowed the touch. Their hands lingered together a shade longer than Tony expected them to, and he swore he heard the tiniest whimper escape Steve when their fingers finally parted.  
  
_Wishful thinking, Stark. Wishful thinking._


	5. Steve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony invites Steve into his home. Steve learns a few new things.

Tony's kindness knew no bounds. Steve followed him into the penthouse, trying not to feel like a complete and utter burden.  
  
"So it's not much, but it's home," Tony said, a wry tone accompanying his smile.  
  
They paused just inside and Steve stared. The walls were of luxurious wood paneling offset with metal details, hung with beautiful artwork in varying styles. Nothing clashed. Everything was perfect. The only thing out of place, as always, was Steve.  
  
The urge to flee rose, bitter and sharp.  
  
"You don't need to do this, Tony," he said, taking a step backward without meaning to. "I should go."  
  
"No, no," Tony said, keeping the words light, "you should totally stay. It'll be nice to have a guest actually use the guest room."  
  
By the sudden heat in his face, Steve knew his cheeks were dappling red. His mind betrayed him, skipping down dark conduits, thinking about all the guests who had stayed here, not in the guest room, but in Tony's bed. Beautiful women, scores of them, all falling at Tony's feet. Though Steve knew he probably shouldn't think that way. Modern women expected more than to be thought of as objects of affection and desire.  
  
If Tony noticed his blush, he didn't show it. Instead he reached backward, urging Steve forward with a scooping gesture.  
  
"Come on. Let me show you to your room."  
  
A flutter of something unknown unfurled in Steve's chest. It happened every time Tony asked him to do something, or told him to do something. What the feeling was, Steve didn't know. All he knew was that it felt...comforting. Somehow, Tony made him feel safe.  
  
They walked a little way into the penthouse, around a corner and down a small flight of glass stairs.  
  
"Voila," Tony said as the handle clicked and he swung the door open.  
  
Steve glanced in, then entered under Tony's instruction. The room was just as beautiful as the rest of the place, tastefully decorated and pristine. It was a thousand miles from than anything Steve had seen before. It was a million miles more luxurious than the stuffy apartment he'd lived in with his mother in Brooklyn just fifteen years ago--  
  
Not fifteen years ago. A lifetime ago.  
  
"--you okay?"  
  
Tony's voice cut into the rising panic in Steve's gut. _Pull yourself together, Rogers._  
  
"Yes, I'm fine. Thank you, Tony. You're too kind."  
  
"Pfft," Tony said, waving the compliment off. He stepped in behind Steve and crossed to the windows. "I'm doing basically nothing. Jarvis? Increase window tint by, oh, forty percent."  
  
Immediately the tall windows darkened, shutting out some of the afternoon sunlight and bringing a sense of cosiness. Tony pulled a chair from beside what Steve assumed as a writing desk. He gestured to the bed.  
  
"Take a seat, Steve. We're gonna talk house rules."  
  
The speed at which Steve obeyed would have been embarrassing if Tony had understood why. Thankfully the mythology that had been build around Captain America made it look like he was just a good soldier following orders. Steve perched on the edge of the bed and folded his hands in his lap, waiting.  
  
"So essentially, there are no house rules," Tony said, flashing a bright smile. "However, considering the circumstances, I just want to make one thing clear." His smile disappeared and he paused, briefly pursing his lips. "Look, I'm no psychologist, and hell, I've got enough bad coping mechanisms of my own. I don't expect you to suddenly stop doing the stuff you were doing." His gaze flicked to Steve's legs for the shortest of moments. "That's for you and the shrinky-dink to figure out." He waved off Steve's inquiring look. "The therapist, I mean. But here's the deal. If you're going to break out a blade, you do it under my supervision. Understood?"  
  
Stunned didn't quite convey exactly how Steve felt. He didn't even know his jaw was hanging slack until Tony suggested he close it before it fell off.  
  
"O...okay," was all the reply Steve could muster.  
  
"I'm not saying it's a good thing to do," Tony went on, "not at all. It clearly isn't. But if you need to do it, to release pressure or cause pain or whatever it is--and again, as the king of poor choices, I understand--you're not to do it alone. I'll supervise, just in case anything goes wrong."  
  
Steve had to work to keep his mouth shut. How could this man be so kind, so understanding? How could he be so empathetic?  
  
Suddenly Steve lost control of his mouth again.  
  
"I have to tell you something," he blurted.  
  
The outburst made Tony lift one eyebrow high. "Shoot."  
  
"Tony, if I'm going to stay here, you deserve to know. I..."  
  
What was the right way to say it? _I'm a fairy, I'm a Nancy-boy, I'm a fag._  
  
"In case it makes you uncomfortable, and you need to know so you can decide whether you really want me to stay, I don't just...like women. Exclusively. You should know in case it changes your mind about me staying under your roof."  
  
The last words came out in a rush, and his face burned again. All Steve could do was look at his hands.  
  
Tony was silent, until he wasn't. "That's cool."  
  
Steve's head snapped up. Tony was smiling.  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"Yeah," Tony replied. "You're not the only one in this penthouse who feels that way."  
  
Steve almost asked if Tony meant Jarvis before sense prevailed.  
  
"Yeah?" he asked again, because it was all he could say.  
  
"Yes," Tony replied, half-baffled and half-amused. Then his levity settled. "It's not something you need to declare in case someone gets offended, you know. It's not something to have to apologise for."  
  
Steve dropped his gaze again, the echoes of his straight cuts tingling.  
  
"It was back then," he said simply. "Or even, it was something you never talked about. I know I never did."  
  
"Thankfully things have moved on," Tony said.  
  
Steve managed to look up. "What do people, y'know, call it? Any terms I know were pejorative and awful to hear even seventy years ago. I hope there are better words now."  
  
Tony waved a hand. "Bisexual is how I define myself. But some people would call themselves  pansexual. It depends on how your attraction works. And some people don't use labels at all. Ultimately it doesn't matter as long as you're happy, I guess." He gave Steve a sympathetic smile that made his heart ache. "I know you're not happy right now. Don't worry about what to call yourself." His eyes were impossibly soft. "The priority at this moment is helping you feel better."  
  
Steve's ironclad will was the only thing that kept the moisture in his eyes firmly unshed.  
  
"Thank you, Tony. For everything. Really. I know this must be such an imposition. I should have asked you before I put your name down on my forms. You should have had the choice to say 'no.'"  
  
Standing, Tony slipped his hands into his pockets and smiled that easy smile again.  
  
"I wouldn't have, even if I'd had the chance." Steve wanted to know, needed to know, _why_? But Tony was striding to the door. "I'll have some of your stuff brought up. That okay?"  
  
Coldness seeped into Steve's bones. "I left out some stuff. That I don't. People shouldn't see it."  
  
Understanding, Tony leaned against the door jamb and nodded. "Maybe we'll swing down later together. Probably a better idea to let you pick out your own things anyway."  
  
"Thanks, Tony."  
  
Tony pushed himself upright again and tapped the frame with his knuckles. "You like Italian food?"  
  
"Sure."  
  
"Good, good."  
  
With another smile, he was gone. Steve moved his hands from his lap to crush into the edge of the mattress. It gave way like putty under his fingers. Tony was so good and kind and understanding. Guilt at all the judgement Steve had thrown his way washed over him in waves. It was never that Steve had actually looked down on him. It was because he thought so much of him.  
  
This was why it was better to keep people at arm's length. He'd let Bucky in and he'd lost him. He'd let Peggy in and he'd lost her too.  
  
Steve's fingers twitched at the thought of a blade, and his legs trembled under the weight of the day.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What Tony suggests here is based on actual experience between myself and my husband. Not recommended by any stretch of the word.


	6. Tony

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve does what he's told. And Tony can cook.

There was a reason Tony had asked if Steve liked Italian food. The guy was clearly in need of comfort, and Tony had never been great at the whole _there-there_ words thing. What he could do, however, was rustle up some comfort food, and rustle up he did.  
  
At first Steve had been awkward, hovering near the dinner table not quite knowing what to do. But the look on his face when he'd tasted Tony's family recipe carbonara made every weird second beforehand worth it.  
  
Even though he knew the answer, Tony had cocked his head to the side and grinned across the table. "Nice?"  
  
Steve's answer was nothing more than a mumble of pleasure. Tony's smile widened. It was the first time he'd been Steve look happy in...forever.  
  
"Glad you like it. It was Nonna's speciality, or so I'm told." His grin slipped a little. "I never actually knew her."  
  
"Italian?" Steve manages around another mouthful.  
  
"Part," Tony replies. His own pleasure in the food was secondary to watching Steve's delight.  
  
After dinner, Steve insisted on washing the dishes by hand even though there was a perfectly good dishwasher present and zero expectation for Steve to do anything in reciprocation. Tony let him have at it. Why not?  
  
Afterward they collected some of Steve's belongings. Tony made sure not to stare at the half-covered evidence of Steve's misconduct. To his credit, Steve didn't try to take any of it with him. He packed a backpack of clothing and that was all. No knickknacks. No personal items.  
  
Except the shield, of course, but that was a given.  
  
It was all fine. They went back to the penthouse. Steve went to bed. Tony accidently stayed up late like he did every night because _projects_. He fell asleep on the couch because that was a thing that happened on the regular.  
  
But then the non-regular thing happened. Tony jerked awake to the sound of Jarvis saying, "You're needed, sir." And sure enough, Steve was standing a little way off, shrouded in darkness. Even at a distance Tony could make out his trembling.  
  
"Rogers?" he asked, rubbing sleep from his eyes and a delightful string of drool from one corner of his mouth.  
  
Steve didn't come any closer. "I'm following the rules. The one rule."  
  
Tony sat bolt upright straight away as Steve's unsaid meaning rang true. "Do you want to sit down?"  
  
The other man didn't move, so Tony asked Jarvis to increase the lights to get a better look. Steve didn't seem to have anything in his hands, no glint of metal or curve of a blade. The knowledge calmed Tony a little, and he patted the couch beside him.  
  
"Sit down," he repeated, and this time Steve acquiesced.  
  
The couch dipped underneath the new weight. While Tony angled himself toward Steve, Steve sat ramrod straight, fingers digging into his sweatpants and eyes staring ahead, just like he had in the car.  
  
"Have you done anything to yourself?" It had to be asked.  
  
The column of Steve's throat bobbed. "No. But I want to."  
  
"Tell me why."  
  
This was off-piste. It hadn't been part of the agreement. Tony said he would supervise to keep things safe. He'd never drawn up terms to say Steve had to explain himself. It was none of Tony's business. Steve was entitled to his privacy. Yet there was a yearning inside Tony that needed to know. What had made Steve go from delighted eater of carbonara to a pulled-taut spring, ready to snap? There was a physical pain in Tony's gut at the sight of Steve brought so low. He wanted, _needed_ to know.  
  
Despite knowing he didn't need to explain, Steve opened his mouth to speak, closed it in silence, then tried again.  
  
"Hard. Everything is hard."  
  
On another day, in different circumstances, Tony Stark would have been all over that comment like a bad case of crotch crickets. But this was now, and this was Steve, and Tony's heart was breaking.  
  
"Understandable."  
  
As they spoke, Steve's fingers pressed harder into his sweats until Tony swore he saw the fabric fraying. He reached out to lay his hands on Steve's.  
  
"Hey, you'll hurt yourself," he said before he realised what he'd said.  
  
But he was committed and the words couldn't be unsaid, and his hands were on top of Steve's, and Steve turned then, staring at Tony with those oceans of eyes.  
  
Emboldened by strength or sleep-deprivation, either could have been the case, Tony twined his fingers in Steve's and worked them loose. His nail beds shone pale in the dim light.  
  
"I'm not much of a talker, and truthfully I'm not much of a touchy-feely guy either, but I can offer a hug if you think that might help?"  
  
Steve didn't move. But then, Tony realised, he never did when offered a choice. This soldier responded better to orders.  
  
"Let me hug you, Steve."  
  
With that rephrase, Steve complied. He was stiff at first, but relaxed as Tony rubbed soft circles into the impossible muscles of his back. This was too intimate, Tony knew. This was dangerous, because Tony wanted to touch every part of Steve and Steve was too vulnerable to make a wise choice.  
  
Never let it be said that Tony Stark has no control, because despite how perfect Steve felt under his touch, how easily he yielded, how much he smelled like sandalwood and spice, all Tony did was hold him close. If that didn't prove he was the strongest Avenger, he didn't know what would.  
  
"Is this something regular 21st Century fellas normally do?"  
  
Steve's words brought a chuckle to Tony's throat. His voice hummed against the curve of Steve's broad shoulder.  
  
"I don't think either of us are regular 21st Century fellas," he said. "Is it making you feel better?"  
  
Steve's answer was muffled as he dropped his face into Tony's neck. "Yes."  
  
"Then just concentrate on that, big guy."  
  
"Okay."


	7. Steve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The ritual evolves, and it's a lot less destructive.

The new ritual evolved by accident, just like the first. Steve was certain it was never Tony's intention to become his new crutch, but that was exactly what happened.  
  
After the first night on the couch, there was a second and a third. And a fourth. And more. And more. Steve hadn't meant to stop taking a blade to his thigh, but that was what happened, because it seemed disrespectful to commit such an act in Tony's home. Tony had said he would supervise, but since that first night when Steve had resisted the urge and turned to Tony instead, Steve hadn't felt the waves so strongly. They were still there, even as weeks with Tony's (admittedly excellent) therapist went by, but Steve found himself wanting something else instead, something less painful that would ground him.  
  
Tony.  
  
He knew this wasn't a solution to the problem, but he hadn't figured out what the solution actually was yet. Beyond getting Tony to invent a time machine so he could go back home again, Steve wasn't sure if there _was_ a solution to his problem. He could never go back to his time, his place, and he was starting to wonder if instead of pining to go back, he needed to look forward. Find something new. _Someone_ new.  
  
But no. He was just being an Able Grable, getting all hot under the collar for the first guy to show him any kindness. It wasn't fair to expect that of Tony. It wasn't respectful.  
  
Though Steve had to admit, he wasn't usually thinking about respectfulness when the urge to carve himself came upon him, and Steve found himself standing near Tony's sleeping form, waiting for the computer voice to tell him Steve needed him.  
  
On a night he'd lost count of, when he stepped out of the guest room and into the main living area, he didn't need the computer voice. Tony was awake and waiting.  
  
Neither of them spoke. Tony lifted his arms, beckoning Steve forward. Unable to resist, not wanting to resist, Steve did as he was bidden and climbed onto the couch, resting his head on Tony's lap. The other man's hands settled on him, holding him together.  
  
Steve found himself sighing as Tony passed his close-cut nails through his hair, gently grazing his scalp.  
  
There was no doubt about it. He was absolutely clobbered for Tony.  
  
His muscles coiled as the old familiar hate crept up inside him. He wasn't supposed to be this way. This wasn't how his ma had raised him. It was something the parish priest condemned. And if his father had known, what would he have said? What would he have _done_? This wasn't what anyone expected of him. This was wrong and it was dirty and it was--  
  
"You okay, Steve?"  
  
Tony's voice sliced through his self-aggression. Steve slammed the brakes on his thoughts and swallowed hard, forcing his concentration back on the tingling sensation in the wake of Tony's fingertips.  
  
"Just working through some stuff."  
  
"Okay."  
  
Tony asked for nothing further, just kept giving his touch and his affection and his time. He should be asleep, deserved to be asleep, yet he was here, allowing Steve to lay his head in his lap. How could he be so good?  
  
"Do you ever..." Steve started, but wasn't sure how to continue.  
  
Tony kept passing his hands through Steve's hair, waiting.  
  
"When did you accept yourself for who you are?"  
  
Tony's chuckle rumbled through his lap. "What makes you say I have?"  
  
A flash of panic shot through Steve, and it must have translated into stiff muscles because Tony hushed him and passed a hand over Steve's forehead.  
  
"Don't panic, kiddo."  
  
Steve laughed at that. "I'm a lot older than you."  
  
"Hmm, maybe technically," Tony said, and Steve could hear the smile in his voice, "but I can't help but feel like I'm your senior. What I meant by my smart-mouth comment was that I probably seem a lot more confident than I feel on the inside. 'Fake it til you make it' is an excellent piece of advice." Tony raked his fingers from Steve's hairline all the way back to the base of his skull. "Do you mean something more specific when you ask 'who I am?'"  
  
Steve bit his lip before he responded. "About...not just liking dames."  
  
Tony chuckled again. "Now  when you talk like that, I feel positively teenage." He worked the pad of one thumb against Steve's temple. "I have to be honest, I never really had an issue with it. There's plenty enough in my life that I've had problems with. Thankfully I've always been good with my sexuality. In fact," he added with another chuckle, which was softer this time and somehow a little sad, "sometimes I thought I'd been made this way just to give me another way to piss my dad off."  
  
"Howard?"  
  
"Yeah. We never really saw eye to eye. In the end, I enjoyed being a disappointment to him in every way possible."  
  
Steve turned his head, expression untamed and serious. "You're not a disappointment."  
  
Tony cocked his head and glanced down, his face set with a wry smile. "Thanks. Some days I believe that and some days I don't."  
  
He guided Steve's head back into a more comfortable position and resumed his electric tingling touches.  
  
"My dad was a hard man," Steve said. "Hard on the bottle and hard with his hands. He made it clear that I was nothing but a disappointment from the day I was born." He pulled in a sudden, shuddering sigh. "If he knew I was what he'd have termed a 'pansy,' he'd have finally lost it and beaten me to death."  
  
"Oh, Steve." Tony's words were impossibly comforting.  
  
"S'okay," Steve replied, feeling his eyes grow suddenly heavy. "It's in the past."  
  
Something twigged inside him at that revelation. A lot of things were in the past, and the only one who was dragging them into the present was Steve himself.  
  
"But...I'm not," he continued. "I'm here."  
  
Tony's hands stilled on his head. "How do you feel about that?"  
  
"It's not so bad," Steve said, eyes all the way closed now. "Especially this. I like this."  
  
He wasn't sure whether Tony's response was real or not. But in his head or out loud, it was beautiful.  
  
"I like this too. I really do."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1940s Glossary:
> 
> Able Grable: slang for a girl with low morals.
> 
> Clobbered: to have a crush on.


	8. Tony

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve's well enough to leave. Tony wishes he wasn't going.

After a while, Steve was ready to go back to his own place. Even though Tony knew it was coming, knew Steve was never going to be a permanent fixture, there was still something tragic about it.  
  
It all started with a falling building and a name on a form, but it had become a comfort and something beyond the legal definition of next of kin. Steve had become a welcome presence in his home, a friend in the spare bedroom, his head a reassuring weight on Tony's lap in the night. Sure, Tony had been more than happy to help Steve through his troubles, but there was more to it. As with everything he did, Tony knew there was an element of self-interest there too.  
  
Since Steve had moved in, Tony had been doing... _really_ well. Looking after the other man had been a point of focus in Tony's often chaotic mind, and on those nights when he fell asleep on the couch deliberately because he couldn't face the gaping chasm of his empty bed, Steve had become his anchor. Tony knew that no matter what was going on in his own mind, when Steve needed him, he was there. No ifs. No questions. No problems. Everything else fell away.  
  
So when Tony found himself inside the threshold of his penthouse with Steve now standing on the outside, a backpack of meagre possessions slung on his back and the shield leaning against the door jamb, the grief was palpable.  
  
"Thanks again for everything, Tony." Steve's smile was shy, but there was a lightness around his eyes that had been entirely lacking the first time they stood at this doorway. "I don't think I can say how much I appreciate it."  
  
All Tony could think about was reaching out taking Steve's face in his hands, and planting the softest kiss in the history of kisses on his lips.  
  
Instead, he slotted his thumbs through his belt loops and shrugged. "Don't worry about it. I know, I'm pretty great."  
  
"You sure are, Tony."  
  
Steve couldn't have sounded more earnest if he'd tried. It was so damn _endearing_.  
  
Then Steve got a whole lot more endearing. He made the tiniest move forward, stopped, then screwed his courage and leaned down to place _the softest kiss in the history of kisses_ on Tony's lips.  
  
Hearts and flowers and sparkles and confetti exploded through Tony's head as his eyes slid instinctively closed.  
  
Then Steve's lips were _illegally_ not on his any longer. When Tony opened his eyes again, Steve was smiling another shy boy-next-door smile.  
  
"I'd like to take you out to dinner sometime to say thank you properly," he said. His confidence faltered. "Do you - would that be okay? Sometime?"  
  
"Anytime," Tony's mouth blurted without his permission. It wasn't that he didn't want to say yes, but did he have to sound _so_ _utterly enamored_?  
  
Steve's eyes were suddenly unbelievably bright. "Great." He leaned down and lifted the shield. "Soon."  
  
"Soon," Tony echoed.  
  
Then Steve disappeared towards the elevator, leaving Tony weak-kneed and watching.  
  
When he slipped inside and shut the door, he leaned against its smooth surface.  
  
"Jarvis, did that really just happen?"  
  
"It did indeed, sir."  
  
"Good," Tony said, his face slowly lifting with a smile. "Good."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end! But I'm pretty sure I want to write a sequel. Hopefully soon.


End file.
